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Monthly Archives: January 2012

It was my last evening in Minneapolis and I was ready to run with the wolves. I’m not gonna lie to you people-I likes t’ party. Shit-I even like just saying the word. Party. Puh-puh-puh-party. One thing I’ve learned after years of fine tuning my boundless heathenry to laser precision, coupled with the thunder of Thor’s hammer, is that nothing goes together quite like beer and smokes. It’s Willie and Waylon. Now add fire and explosives and brother, you’ve got yer four basic food groups. You’ve got The Highwaymen. So what do you get when you’ve got a shit-ton of cheap beer, fireworks, aerosol cans, a bonfire and a handful of savages approaching a black out? Well mister, you’ve got the perfect storm.

Now here’s a handy tidbit for the neophyte heathen: cowboy hats are an awesome platform for launching bottle rockets. You know what else is awesome? Pissin’ all over yer friends fence. But don’t be a greedy fun-tick. Share this privilege of pure elation and let him finish the job.

Puh

Puh

Puh

Party

However, the most joyful moment of unfiltered bliss is blowin’ shit up. Blowin’ shit up when yer loaded is like making out with a unicorn-it’s magical! It’s like grabbing life by the sack, shoving his balls up his ass and packin’ ’em in with your hard cock-the ol’ 2 shot musket job. Any problems you may be incurring fall like autumn leaves and drift away in the face ofblowin’ shit up. If I had the choice between a blow job and blowin’ shit up? Well, let’s just say my girlfriend would never need to buy mouthwash again. Hell, let’s blow some shit up.

Have you ever slow cooked a rump roast in a dutch oven? Well, after the holiday debauchery, the smelt and sweat coming off my body at night basically turned my bed into a crock pot. Reptiles warming their cold bodies on my heat rock shoulders would have melted and slid down over my back bacon like pads of butter. The perspiration my liver shoved out of my body, like some heathen play-doh not fun factory , soaked thru countless, unknowing t-shirts. A quicker picker upper massacre that would have made the brawny towel guy trade in his flannel for a sun dress. The sweltering temperature and moisture in my bedroom could have inspired a thousand Tennessee Williams plays. I was awoken in the middle of the night by some one calling out “Stella!” on the street below my window. The harsh and unforgiving swampland much like Florida’s everglades, would have swallowed airplane crashes whole, the bodies never to be recovered. Basically, it was totes gross.

Dude-even my neck was drenched! What the shit is that about? My body must have looked like those pod people from “Invasion of the Body Snatchers”. Not to mention the weakened, stumbling brain cells scratching the air with their sad, T. Rex arms, re-enacting “Return of the Living Dead” and ironically moaning for “brains.”

Oh yeah-and the farts. Sweet Jesus, the farts. Each one coming out hotter than the last, stoking countless cans of Coors coals, smelling like someone rolled a turd in butt-hair and fired it up like a doobie. Farts that smell so vile, you briefly forget you think they’re hilarious. To quote the dude, “this is a bummer, man.” Anyhoo, that’s how you slow cook a rump roast in a dutch oven. Puh-puh-puh-party.